


Until Your Little Blue Heart Breaks

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Changing Tenses, Cross-Generation Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, POV Second Person, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: You will ride out every spasm of your release until she's left you an empty shell of a boy, and you will love her until your little blue heart breaks.In which a 21-year-old Teddy Lupin seduces his way into the Potter family.





	1. Chapter 1

There is a hidden house in London that calls to you, the way blood calls to blood. Because, by birthright, it belongs to you more than it belongs to the people that reside there. Black blood runs through your veins. Diluted through generations, but dark nonetheless.

 

The iron gates answer to your ancestry and turn to red dust beneath your fingers. The heavy doors sing their rusty hinge song that heralds your arrival, and the new smells of family and comfort welcome you home. The gas lamps of the foyer come to life with a warm glow, revealing the embroidered vines twining up fabric on the walls that weave like snakes. When your fingers slide along the velvet corridor, the snake vines emerge from the wallpaper to coil around your wrist and you stop short with a quiet gasp. Have you been away that long? Have you already been forgotten? But the vines taste your skin with their tongues of leaves and seem to sigh with sibilant approval as they return to their resting state adorning the walls. You belong here, despite the resentful whispers that come from a curtained portrait.

 

You belong here.

 

But this is not your home. Not truly. Not the way you want it to be. Not the way it should be.

 

Still, it feels more like home than any other place you’ve rested your head, more than the house in which you were brought up, and certainly more than your tiny Oxford domicile. You hadn’t even meant to come here. You took the train into London, intent on finding mindless pleasure, and instead of a pub or a nightclub, your feet brought you here.

 

Nobody is home. Nobody should be home for another hour.

 

You climb the stairs, smooth your hand along the well-worn wood of the banister, knowing that the hands of the people you love have touched the same rail. The hands of your ancestors have been there. And maybe even the hands of your parents.

 

The stairs creak with age beneath your feet and you give pause, just for the sake of nostalgia, to remember the pattern of steps – the one you and Jamie had deciphered as children, the one that would allow you both to creep up or down the stairs without being heard.

 

On the fifth step, you put your foot on the very edge near the banister, and then dead center on the sixth, then close to the wall for the next four steps, until you take the landing on tiptoe at the very edge. You smile and inwardly compliment yourself for your flawless memory.

 

The first door on the left says _Do Not Enter Upon Pain of Death by Cat_. Just below that sign are several half-scratched-off stickers of golden snitches and flowers, and a Gryffindor pennant affixed to the door with spell-o-tape. Right on cue, a ginger cat pads up to the door and takes its post as guard.

 

“Hello, Hux,” you greet the cat pleasantly. He slinks around your ankles and rubs his face on your legs, leaving his orange and white fur all over your trousers. “Want a treat?”

 

With a bit of transfiguration, you produce a tasty morsel from a coin in your pocket and toss it down the stairs. Hux chases after it eagerly and you giggle with amusement.

 

The next door down the corridor has an iconic looking poster with a less than iconic aphorism printed on it. _Keep Calm and Bugger Off_.

 

And upon the door across the hall, there’s a brass placard that proclaims _His Royal Highness King Jamie_ resides within. It’s by far the most inviting door in the corridor. You gently push the door, and it opens soundlessly. When you step inside, it feels smaller than you remembered. There’s the cluttered desk in the corner, the posters of quidditch stars plastered over the wallpaper, the twin bed neatly made and un-slept in for months with the trundle tucked neatly underneath gathering dust. You’d slept here as a child. This was always your room. But at the same time, not your room.

 

You take a scrap of parchment from the desk and scrawl something on it with a self-inking quill. You fold it up small and then place it under Jamie’s pillow. You bite your lip to keep from smiling too wide because you already know what Jamie’s reaction will be and you ought not be so smug about it.

 

You leave the room otherwise as you had found it and move on to the top floor. And now these steps you take follow a silent pattern that only you know. Not Jamie, not Albie, not Lily. There’s only one bedroom on this floor. Unlike the others on the floor below, the room is a complete mess. The bed is unmade, there are clothes strewn over armchairs, and jewelry littering the top of the dresser. It smells lived-in. It smells of the stale laundry overflowing from the hamper, of perfumed lotion, of overworked bodies and old sweat.

 

There is a necktie hanging over the mirror and you slide it off. You let the silk flow over your fingers and imagine that it’s still warm. You reverently place it where it belongs, inside the walk-in closet on the tie rack. You take stock of the other ties and play them like piano keys with your fingers, matching the color of your hair to the color of the tie you touch.

 

And then you turn to the other side of the closet. With your eyes closed, you slide your hands between the hanging frocks and blouses and skirts and dress robes. You pretend that you can tell what each garment looks like by the way it feels. You fancy yourself able to see how the woman looks in each article of clothing behind your dark eyelids. You think you can even feel her – how each garment hangs on her form, clings to her hips, cascades over her arse, ripples over her breasts.

 

And now you’re hard. You always knew you would be. You lean forward and nuzzle your face into the cotton and silk and linen. You smell her – her soap, her oils, her hair, her soft body. The heel of your palm is pressed hard against the bulge at the front of your trousers. Your lips part and you inhale her right down your throat and pretend you can taste her. But it’s not enough. Because you’ve no fucking idea what she tastes like. Hell, you don’t even know what she feels like. Not really. Not the way you want to know her.

 

And so you succumb to the wicked little monster inside your heart that makes you do stupid things for no good reason. You feel the thrill of danger and the excitement of getting away with it, and it’s almost enough to stifle the guilt. But you know you’re a sick fuck and a pervert and a freak. And so you’re crying just a little bit as you rummage like a crazy person, clawing through the heap of dirty laundry in the hamper, like a beast digging for grubs in the soil.

 

You unearth your succulent morsel. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s delicate and small and, _fuck_ , it smells of _her_ , and your cock has found its way out of your trousers. You fist your erection, swift and desperate, as you bury your face in her primal scent, imagining that it’s your face in her blessed pussy and your tongue on the jewel that is her clit. She’s bitter and sweet and briny. And then you’re fucking her. You’re fucking her knickers in your fist. She’s wet knit jersey, damp with your spit and your pre-come. She’s moaning languidly and calling you _baby_ and she loves you. _Oh gods_ , she loves you. And you’re coming hard inside her. You’ll never let her go. You will ride out every spasm of your release until she’s left you an empty shell of a boy.

 

You shudder. You bite your lip and you cry. Because you’ve made an awful mess. You’re a dreadful, dirty, disgusting boy. You vanish the violated garment with a flick of your wand and take care not to leave behind any trace of your sick indulgence – not a dollop of your spunk, not a stray turquoise curl. Everything is just as you found it – just as cluttered and messy and exactly the way you love it.

 

You use the _ensuite_ washroom to clean yourself up. Maybe you’ll console yourself with a drop of Harry’s aftershave. You curse this indulgence as soon as you selfishly take it, for the scent of him winding around your neck conjures sensations and emotions that make you want to hate yourself. And you pretty much loathe yourself right about now.

 

Downstairs, it’s quiet and cold. The kitchen hasn’t seen much action lately, as evident by the spotless stove and the cartons of old take-away in the refrigerator. You install yourself at the dinette and watch the clock above the window over the sinks. The rooster on the hour hand chases the chicken on the minute hand, which in turn sends the little yellow chick skittering around the dial on the second hand. You are a wolf that’s found its way into the chicken coop.

 

She’ll be home in ten minutes. He’ll be home… whenever he gets here – Certainly not before she gets home, and most likely not until she’s already in bed. You know that she will be bitter about this. But you are even more embittered than she.

 

 _He deserves this._ With the blackness of your heart, you tell yourself this inside the darkness of your head. He has allowed this to happen. He’s practically making you do this.

 

You hear the song of rusty hinges like a siren call and your back goes rigid in your seat. She curses his name like he’s a blasphemed deity, and you’re not at all surprised by how this makes your cock stiffen in your trousers. The cat is caught off guard, having been preoccupied by your transfigured treats, and they start off bickering. You want to giggle, but you hold your tongue.

 

There’s a fed-up clatter and an exhausted shuffle as she moves from the foyer to the corridor. And then you see her. She looks so tired that it hurts your heart. Her hair is coming out of a lazy chignon on its own accord as she… _oh fuck, is she really?_ She’s shucking off her layers as she slowly makes her way closer. She’s unbuttoning her white blouse with a weary sigh - slender fingers working open little buttons so slowly, exactly the way you like to be worked. She’s so bloody tired that she’s completely clueless to the fact that you are here, even though the kitchen lights are on.

 

She enters the kitchen. You hold your breath. She doesn’t notice you sitting there. You should say something. But she’s so unguarded and real and vulnerable and so beautiful this way. She looks so unhappy. So unfulfilled. So disappointed. The first thing she reaches for is a bottle of wine. It’s been that sort of a day. You can relate. Not in the same way, but you know what it feels like when all work and no play makes one a dull boy.

 

You really should say something. You feel like you’re intruding now. Yeah, even after all _that_.

 

“Rough day at work, hm?” you say quietly, gently sympathetic, hoping you won’t startle her.

 

But of course she’s fucking startled. And the bottle of wine hits the tile, splashing red everywhere. It’s a Tuscan blood bath. She looks like she’s committed murder. Hell, her eyes look like she wants to kill you. She’s cursing at you and demanding you tell her why you’re such a creeper – not in those exact words.

 

You stutter like an idiot boy, because you hadn’t intended to cause her this level of alarm and you’re panicking now. She really did not need this. She’s tired enough as it is, without you giving her a reason to do more bloody house cleaning. So you rush to clean it up along with her. You’re on your hands and knees, scrambling to suction up the wine with your wand, intently keeping your eyes down. But Merlin be damned, she’s bending over to clean up the glass, and her blouse is gaping open like the gates to heaven. Stupid analogy, yes, but she really is a goddess.

 

The swell of her breasts heave with labored breaths and swear words, rising like white clouds above flesh tone lace. You shouldn’t stare, but you can’t help it, because every freckle on her chest needs to be venerated and her soft abdomen needs to be worshiped and you’d do it with your mouth but your eyes must suffice.

 

Lavender meets chestnut brown, and you know you’re caught looking. It is only now that she realizes her tits have been practically out for you. You are embarrassed for her as well as yourself. She scrambles to make herself decent, but you’ve seen her in less. You’ve seen her in a bikini at the beach by Shell Cottage. If you rack your brain, you’d find a soft memory of yourself watching lovingly as she breastfed Lily.

 

She’s a mum. It’s okay for kids to see their mums like this, in a state of innocent undress.

 

But she’s not your mother. You are far from a child, and her innocent state of undress makes you feel less than innocent things. And now she’s annoyed as she peels off her wet stockings, and you should feel like an arse for ruining them. But instead, you are thinking far from innocent things about her legs. You’re daydreaming of licking her calves and nibbling her thighs and parting her knees. _She. Is. So. Not. Your. Mother._

 

But, _fuck_ , if that glare doesn’t make you feel like you are her scolded child. You want to make her happy, not endlessly bothered by this bloke that’s always around uninvited. You want her to notice you and care about you, not completely pass you over as if you are invisible.

 

And so you get her to soften, like kneading dough. You bat your eyelashes sweetly, giggle boyishly and feign coyness. You pout your lips slightly and make her pity you, like the lost, forgotten orphan that you are. You make her feel guilty for forgetting you. It’s your birthday. Nobody bothered to acknowledge this fact. You bond over Harry’s absence. You banter like equals. And she forgives you without having to say the words.

 

She kips off to have a shower, leaving you to fester in awkwardness in her wake. You can almost hear the water running through the old pipes. The reckless monster in your heart grumbles in your chest again. What you wouldn’t give to watch her in the shower.

 

It’s too risky, even if you know precisely how to walk on the steps without making them creak. You will close your eyes and watch her in your mind. She will lather her tits with luxuriant bubbles and slip her long fingers over the velvety, pink folds of her lovely pussy. You groan quietly as your hand finds your dick again. You stroke yourself lazily inside your pants. She’s upstairs, fucking herself with soap slicked fingers while dreaming of your hot, young cock plunging deep inside of her with the avarice only youth can provide. Of course she’s not, but it makes you feel like a motherfucking Greek God to think that she is.

 

You hear the creak of the stairs and you speed your ministrations, feeling sweat streak down your neck, tasting coppery panic on your tongue. You are never going to finish and clean yourself up before she gets to the kitchen. So your hand flies out of your trousers just in time.

 

You smile innocently, pretending that you’ve just found a bottle of top shelf whiskey. It’s your 21st birthday. You ought to have a drink.

 

She’s standing in the doorway, donning the sexiest little ensemble masquerading as lounge-wear. It’s an old t-shirt and a weathered pair of shorts, fit for the rubbish bin really. But it is indicative of her precise level of _‘does not give a fuck’_ and you love it. She raises a brow at you, judging you silently. What a loser you must be if you’re spending your birthday drinking fire whiskey with a 37-year-old.

 

You tell her she’s all the family you’ve got tonight, and she melts. There it is. Right there. You’ve got her - Her sympathy now, her lips on yours later if you work her just right. There is a glimmer of something in her chestnut eyes. It’s pity. It’s loneliness. It’s longing. It’s you, in reflection.

 

This is the way it begins. This is how you fall.


	2. Chapter 2

She’s tired.

 

So bloody tired that the fatigue seeps into her bones and makes them feel brittle. She gives a feeble wave of her wand to disable the wards around the house and pushes the door in. The wood creaks miserably on rusty hinges and the sound makes her cringe like nails on a chalkboard.

 

She heaves an annoyed sigh and mutters to herself, “Fucking Hell, Harry.”

 

She’s been telling him for days to take care of that hinge. She could probably do it herself, but she doesn’t know the spell for that and she can’t be arsed to find the oil amongst the epic clutter in the shed. Though arguably, it would take less effort to locate the oil than to get Harry to do anything around the house when he’s home. And that’s the thing. He is home increasingly rarely these days.

 

She lets the strap of her bag slide off of one already-sagging shoulder. The bag inadvertently catches the end of the cat’s tail and the animal hisses indignantly. “Feeling’s mutual, Hux,” she mumbles, annoyed with the orange feline’s presence as much as it is annoyed with hers. “I swear to Merlin, you’re going to Hogwarts with your sister or one of your brothers next year.” She says it like a threat, but it’s exactly what the cat wants.

 

Ginny is sure that Hux is aware he’s been left behind. He always gets grumpy when the children leave and has a tendency to show his displeasure by shitting on someone’s bed, more often than not on hers. In fact, Hux is likely stalking off haughtily to do just that. Ginny doesn’t much like it when the kids go away either, and she can relate to Hux’s moodiness. But that doesn’t mean she wants to kick the cat across the room any less.

 

The house is deadly silent, with the three kids off at school and Harry stuck at work. She hates the quiet – the emptiness looming over her like a heavy void. She’s never had to live with this level of solitude and nothingness, not even when all of her brothers had left The Burrow when she was too young for Hogwarts.

 

Ginny knows she’ll be alone for much of the night. Harry had owled her a heads-up at work. He had told her not to wait for him to have dinner. Which will likely be followed up soon by another owl telling her not to wait up for him at all. It happens so often, now that all three kids have been at school, now that Harry has no excuse for cutting out of work on time. Certainly, a wife and a hot meal and perhaps a hot bed are not enough to entice Harry to come home at a reasonable hour anymore. You bet your arse, Ginny is bitter about it – at least she had been bitter when this pattern of absence had first become apparent. Now, Ginny just feels resigned to the fact.

 

She steps out of her high-heels and leaves them right in the doorway along with her bag. She throws her coat and suit jacket over the banister of the stairs, not bothering to put them away properly. Maybe it has less to do with tiredness and laziness, and more to do with cluttering the house on purpose. A house that was too tidy felt unlived in – felt sterile and cold – not like home at all. Without Jamie to leave his muddy trainers in the middle of the foyer, or Lily to toss her broom precariously on the stairs, or Albie to leave a trail of teenage detritus all the way up to his room, somebody has to contribute to the clutter.

 

She pulls off her clip-on earrings and tosses them onto the closest table, then unbuttons her blouse down to the navel, anxious to be free from the confines of bothersome business attire. She shuffles towards the kitchen, making a beeline for the liquor cabinet rather than the refrigerator. If she pairs some cheese with her wine, she can justifiably call it dinner, right? She opens the cabinet door (incidentally, also creaky) and reaches for a bottle of something posh that Astoria had brought her from Tuscany, deciding that it would otherwise turn to vinegar if she waited to open it for a nice home-cooked meal. She closes her fingers around the bottle, and just as she turns to fetch a glass from the drying rack, she is startled to find that she is not alone.

 

“Rough day at work, hm?”

 

The presence of another human being in her kitchen is so jarring that Ginny drops the wine bottle and it shatters on the tile, splashing burgundy colored wine up her legs and across the floor.

 

“Jesus fuck, Teddy!” Ginny reprimands the boy breathlessly, “What the hell are you doing, hiding in here?”

 

Teddy Lupin, Harry’s ever-present godson, looks equally as shocked as Ginny, his lavender eyes wide with alarm and his palms up in preemptive surrender to Ginny’s rage.

 

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t hiding, I was just, erm…,” he stammers. He’s sitting at the dinette, looking like he doesn’t know where his eyes are supposed to be focusing – the mess on the floor, Ginny’s narrowed eyes, or…

 

And that’s when Ginny realizes her state of undress – realizes that her lacy bra is peeking out through the gaping blouse – realizes that she practically has her tits out in front of a kid she considers her nephew. She hurriedly buttons her blouse and huffs, “You can’t fucking sneak up on people like that.”

 

“I-I-I didn’t sneak,” Teddy stutters, “I was just… erm, Harry said…”

 

“Never mind what Harry said,” she says impatiently, rolling her eyes upon the mention of her husband’s name, now aware that there’s no getting answers out of Teddy until he calms down. “Help me clean up this mess.”

 

Teddy rushes to her aid with his wand to siphon off spilled wine from the floor as Ginny uses her own wand to carefully collect the green shards of glass into a pile.

“I went to meet Harry in London for dinner, being my birthday and all,” Teddy begins to explain as he’s cleaning up the floor, crouching over the tile, intently not looking at Ginny, who is now pulling off one of her wine-soaked stockings.

 

Ginny interrupts him before he can go on, suddenly feeling awful for swearing at him earlier, “Shit, I’m so sorry, I forgot. Happy birthday, Teddy.” She’s genuinely apologetic and reaches down to give his shoulder a little squeeze. Sympathetically, she adds, “Harry forgot too, hm? Did he not show up?”

 

This conclusion is easily inferred from the fact that Harry did not mention in his owl anything about missing dinner at home because of any prior plans with Teddy. But Teddy’s answer plants seeds of suspicion in her mind.

 

“No, he actually did show up,” Teddy admits. “But only to tell me in person that he couldn’t stay. Auror stuff, as usual,” he clarifies with a disappointed sigh.

 

Ginny mirrors his sigh, but hers is less forlorn and more annoyed. “As usual,” she repeats in agreement. She rolls down the other wet stocking, scrunching her nose up at the unpleasant sticky feeling it leaves behind on her leg.

 

Teddy quickly averts his eyes as if he’s intruding on something private again, not that Ginny was ever a modest woman.

 

“Anyway, he said he forgot my birthday present back at the house and that I should pop in and pick it up,” Teddy explains, “He thought I might have fun with it tonight in his stead.”

 

It makes sense, except for the fact that Harry failed to give Ginny a heads up regarding any of this. He was really good about telling her not to wait for him, but somehow managed to forget to tell her anything regarding Teddy’s birthday or the fact that he’d be stopping by.

 

Ginny continues to give Teddy a wary look. “Okay, that’s all fine and well, but this doesn’t explain why you’re lurking in my kitchen like a creeper.” She quickly adds, because Teddy is practically family and because it is his birthday, “No offense, or anything.”

 

Teddy gives a coy little chuckle as he rights himself, now standing quite tall before Ginny. “I wasn’t lurking. I couldn’t bloody well pop in and not say hello. So I waited. With the lights on mind you. And I was sitting out in the open. Decidedly not lurking.”

 

Ginny’s eyes blink rapidly and she shakes her head. “Wow. I must be losing it.” She balls up her soggy stockings and throws them absently into the sink. “I didn’t even realize the lights were on and I somehow missed the fact that there was a kid here when I came into the kitchen.”

 

Teddy gives Ginny a weak smile, enough to disarm her slightly. “You’re not losing it. Just tired,” he reassures her with a hand on her shoulder. Then he pokes her shoulder sharply, however playfully. “And I’m not a kid anymore, Gin.”

 

“Right,” she drawls out, teasing and unconvinced. “You’re an old man now, Mister University.” She ruffles Teddy’s turquoise curls the way she always had, ever since he was toddler. “I didn’t know they accept teenagers at Oxford.”

 

Teddy rolls his eyes, but somehow manages to do it in a way that’s not disrespectful. “Yeah, I’m twenty-one. And the Institute for Advanced Wizardry at Oxford accepted me at eighteen.”

 

“Okay, Big Man on Campus,” Ginny says, patronizingly. “What grown up gift did Harry give you then, hm?”

 

“Another reason why I waited here for you,” says Teddy with a crooked smile that’s much too boyish for one who is trying to assert his adulthood. “Because I can’t seem to bloody find it.”

 

Ginny puts her hands on her hips as she groans. “Gods. Harry. I don’t know where he keeps his brain, let alone your birthday present.”

 

“It would not be a birthday party at the Potters without a game of hide and find, yeah?” Teddy jokes, but the wistful twinkle in his eyes tell Ginny that he’s more nostalgic than sarcastic.

 

“Ugh, Harry, we really don’t need this shit right now,” Ginny laments tiredly as she finishes tidying the remains of an expensive bottle of wine.

 

And then something clicks in her mind. Something she’d seen at the corner of her eye that had barely registered. “Check the liquor cabinet, Ted. Thought I saw a box in fancy paper. I’m going up to change.”

 

“Yeah, erm, sorry about the wine,” Teddy mumbles sheepishly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Take your time. I’ll have another look around.”

 

“No worries,” she forgives him with a dismissive hand gesture. She’s halfway up the stairs, realizing that every step has been a sticky one, and calls out, “I’m gonna jump in the shower real quick. Make yourself at home.” Then she adds, because Teddy always makes banter so easy, “Or make me a sandwich. Whatever, yeah?”

 

He returns, equally snarky, “A Potter owes me a birthday dinner, so…”

 

In the shower, Ginny lathers up her wine-christened legs and ponders the peculiar minds of men. She was often quick to just write off odd behavior as the shortcomings of the opposite sex. She figures that Harry just had a stress-induced brain fart. No, she decides that it was mere forgetfulness. Because no wife wants to believe that her husband is willfully deceiving her, and incidentally also Teddy.

 

And then there’s Teddy. Spending the evening of his twenty-first birthday, not partying hard with his mates from university, but lingering in her house for no good reason. Mystery birthday present isn’t a good enough motivation.

 

When her loofa bubbles up and glides across her chest, Ginny has the fleeting, self-centered, delusional thought that maybe Teddy really wanted to stick around and wait for her. Maybe he’s so starved for attention, so desperate for a mother-figure who isn’t a feeble senior citizen, that he’d jump at the chance to spend time with Ginny. Poor kid just wants his parents on his birthday – loneliest day of the year for an orphan.

 

Much of her fatigue runs down the drain with the soothing, warm water. She puts on her stay-at-home uniform of old tee-shirt and running shorts and somehow feels less tired. That’s not to say that she’s invigorated or anything. She jogs down the stairs, realizing how hungry she is.

 

When she enters the kitchen, her hair is still wet, and her feet are bare on the cold, still-sticky tile. Teddy’s sitting at the dinette again, but this time, Ginny sees him right away. And he’s got a bottle of Ogden’s Reserve open on the table.

 

“Found my birthday present. Fancy, yeah?” He gestures at the bottle and its gold label.

 

She sits across the table from him, takes the bottle, and examines it warily. Harry really is a _dumbarse_. What responsible person gives their godson a bottle of firewhiskey and tells him to go have fun with it in his stead? It’s like handing a wand to a toddler, saying, _go have fun with it_ , and then walking away.

 

She shakes her head, but does not relinquish the bottle. “I think you ought to keep this here,” she suggests as she caps the bottle.

 

Teddy chuckles lightly. He thinks she’s joking. “I’m not going to drink the whole thing myself,” he reassures her, “I’m a responsible adult who knows how to drink responsibly.”

 

Ugh. The thought of little Teddy Lupin as an adult just makes her feel so bloody old. And even though he’s entitled to have a drink, the thought of him partaking of alcohol makes the age divide seem wider. Because she can still faintly remember changing his nappies. And now he’s about to embark on a birthday bender, thanks to her idiot husband.

 

“You sure your mates are gonna take care of you tonight if you get shit faced?” she asks, knowing full well that they won’t.

 

Teddy looks at her confusedly. “My mates? Gin, it’s end of term at Uni. Everyone’s going mad trying to finish their dissertation. Nobody has time to get drunk with me on my birthday.” And then he glances away sadly, if a bit embarrassed. “And to be honest, I don’t even have friends.” He fiddles with his thumbs on the table, looking like a wretched orphan boy. “Not any that I’d actually want to have a drink with, really.”

 

“So you’re drinking alone,” she concludes and then sighs, “Okay, that’s just sad, Ted. You’re a nice bloke. You _must_ have _one_ friend. I find it hard to believe that a friendly kid like you would be alone.”

 

“I’m not alone. I’ve got family. I’ve got you.” His lavender eyes meet hers and there’s so much loneliness inside them. She’s felt it too. “You’re all I’ve got right now.” He reaches across the table to take her hand gently. If it were not for the table, she would hug him right now.

 

But then it isn’t needed anymore. “You’re drinking with me,” he informs her matter-of-factly and then flashes the smallest of grins. He crosses his arms and glares at her challengingly from across the table. “If you can keep up, that is.” His shit-eating smirk lights the competitive fire inside her.

 

“In case you forgot, I’m drinking buddies with Astoria Greengrass. No fucking way you can keep up with me, so don’t _even_.” She’s unscrewing the bottle before she has time to think about this.

 

And then they’re eating grilled cheese sandwiches and taking shots of firewhiskey, because they’re both smart enough not to drink on an empty stomach. And long before she’s even got a good buzz on, Teddy’s behaving like a morose drunk, whining about his problems from which she is so far removed.

 

What does she know about being a single twenty-something-year old with the freedom and mobility to do whatever she pleases? What does she know about getting her heart broken? She’s never had that life. Engaged at nineteen, married at twenty, knocked up at twenty-one. Teddy moans about not having a girlfriend, and she just can’t relate. She’s never been without a partner of some sort for as long as she can remember. She has never been able to just sleep around and not care about it. And she sort of wants to strangle Teddy for all of his whining.

 

“Oh do shut up, Teddy,” she says finally, perhaps feeling the Ogdens loosening her tongue, “Boo fucking hoo, you don’t have a girlfriend,” she mocks him, then gives it to him straight, launching into a diatribe. “You don’t need to be in a relationship. You’re young. Enjoy it. Be free to stick your prick in anything that catches your fancy because you _CAN_ right now. But then before you know it, you’ll be shackled to a spouse and a house and a mortgage and a career and kids and you’ll never be able to do whatever the fuck you want ever again.”

 

“But what if I don’t want that, hm?” Teddy asks, clearly affronted, getting angrier with each affirmation disguised as a question. “What if I don’t want to be shallow and irresponsible and frivolous? What if I don’t want meaningless sex with girls who don’t give a damn about me?” Then he takes a long, deep sigh, as if diffusing his own anger. He curls his fingers around his glass and stares into it. “You know me, Gin. I’m not like that.”

 

Ginny’s heart sinks. She feels sober again. She speaks softly. “Yeah… I know. You’re a good kid.” She reaches over to ruffle Teddy’s turquoise curls and smiles. “You were raised better than that. Hell, _I_ raised you better than that.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, she regrets them. She believes them entirely, but she knows they were the wrong words to say at this moment.

 

Teddy flinches away from her, looking more sad than angry. “You’re not my mum.”

 

“You’re right. I’m not.” Ginny stares down shamefully into her glass.   “I’m sorry.” For all she’s done for Teddy, and as much of a mother-figure as she’s been for him, she can never replace Tonks. She should never have alluded to the fact that she could.

 

Teddy shakes his head. “No, don’t be. _I’m_ sorry. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. You _did_ raise me to be a good man. But you’re not my mother.” There is something broken and devastated in Teddy’s expression, and Ginny’s instinct is to fix it, as it has always been.

 

Then he reaches out and curls his hand around the back of her neck. He’s touching her with more familiarity than he’s entitled, even for somebody she considers family. His fingers are too gentle for the touch to be friendly, and yet too subtle to be a caress. And the most alarming thing about the way he’s touching her and the way he’s staring at her, with so much need and desperation in his eyes, is the fact that she doesn’t altogether dislike it.

 

“You’re not my mother…,” he leans closer and repeats, so quietly that she’s not entirely sure he’d spoken out loud or in her head, with an inflection in his voice that has connotations she had never expected. She’s not his mother, and that is exactly the way he wants her.

 

He _wants_ her. Oh gods, Teddy _wants_ her. He wants her in the way Harry _should_ want her, but hasn’t in years. And, _fuck,_ she’d almost forgot what that felt like. To be desired.   To feel _sexy._ Yeah, Teddy is staring at her _like THAT_. Like she’s not in ratty old clothes with exhaustion darkening the skin beneath her eyes. Like she’s not just a mother, but a woman – a beautiful woman. Like he’s fully aware that she’s not wearing a bra under her worn-out tee shirt. And maybe she’s imagining it, but she thinks that Teddy’s awareness is becoming evident in the front of his trousers.

And then something clicks inside Ginny’s head, because she’s always been defiant and indignant and righteous and aware of her worth as a woman. Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, has a hot-as-fuck trophy wife that he is decidedly not fucking. And if Harry Potter is going to squander that gift, then _fuck_ him. _Fuck it all_.

 

“I am absolutely _not_ your mother,” she whispers slowly, nearly daring Teddy to keep on this dangerous, presumptuous tangent.

 

Clearly, she’s had more to drink than she wants to admit.

 

She may be tipsy, but she’s not stupid. Teddy’s getting too close and Ginny knows a moment of selfishness could ruin lives. She gathers her wits and puts a hand on Teddy’s chest to stop his approach and says, “I’m also not a hypocrite.”

 

Teddy’s eyes close. He bites the corner of his bottom lip and lets his hand fall away slowly, as if it pains him to relinquish his touch.

 

“I taught you not to be reckless,” Ginny says.

 

Teddy stares off guiltily. He looks fit to cry. He’s always been a sensitive boy.

 

Then he chuckles. “What is Harry trying to teach me, giving me a bottle of Ogdens and telling me to go have fun with it?”

 

Ginny sighs and rolls her eyes. “Harry’s a dolt.” She takes the bottle and screws the cap on firmly. “And you’ve definitely had too much.”

 

“Just a bit,” Teddy giggles.

 

“Go home, you’re drunk,” Ginny teases, nudging his arm. “And I’ve got an early meeting in the morning.”

 

“I don’t think it’s wise for me to apparate home,” Teddy says. And for a second, Ginny worries that he’s going to ask to stay over. But then he adds, “I think I’ll take a taxi back to campus.”

 

Ginny ruffles his hair. “That’s my boy. So responsible.”

 

Teddy lingers at the door on his way out, leaning against the frame. “I’m sorry I erm…,” Teddy begins to apologize.

 

But Ginny doesn’t want him to leave on an awkward note, especially on his birthday, so she stops him mid sentence. “No worries, Teddy. Already forgotten.”

 

 

But Ginny doesn’t forget.

 

She will remember the warmth of Teddy’s fingertips on the back of her neck. She will remember the way his lavender eyes darkened to a shade of lustful purple. She will remember the way Teddy took the corner of his lip between his teeth and she’ll wonder what it would feel like if it were _her_ lip between his teeth. She’ll wonder what would have happened had she not stopped his approach, had they both given in to recklessness.

 

She’ll find herself in bed tonight, so alone in her quiet, empty house, and she won’t long for her husband’s return. She’ll close her eyes and let her hand creep beneath the bedcovers, and she’ll picture Teddy in her mind – young, virile, beautiful Teddy. She’ll slip her fingers into her panties and find herself wet for the first time in forever. She’ll dream of Teddy’s hands sliding reverently over her body, inexpertly, anxiously – the way boys used to touch her when she was at school. She’ll imagine that she’s that girl again – powerful and fierce and devastatingly sexy.

 

She will make herself come, dreaming of the delicious ways that Teddy could make her feel young and formidable again – with his fingers tugging desperately at her hair and his cock pounding desperately into her body.   She will drift off to sleep feeling guilty and sick.

 

Harry will crawl into bed later in the night and she’ll only vaguely stir from her sleep. She won’t want Harry to touch her. Not that he’ll even want to. She will feel just as lonely as she had before Harry had come home.

 

 

 


End file.
